


Let's raise a glass to fortune

by leo_minor



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Party, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Henry take a break from work challenge, M/M, Overworking, Post-Miracle Mask, Stansbury gang reunion !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28270281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor
Summary: "Why on earth would I burden someone with something I’m perfectly able to do myself ?” Henry asks, quite bewildered. He's managed for the past eighteen years. Today's no different.“Because then you could spend Christmas Eve at home, instead of at work,” Alphonse goes, like it’s as simple as a-b-c. "You could be there tonight. It's our first Christmas all together in god knows how long !"He can manage both. He can finish all his files and be home in time to polish the silverware. He's used to doing everything himself, because it simply gets him the best results. It doesn't occur to him until later that he may not have to.There may be people who he can rely on.
Relationships: Claire/Hershel Layton (background), Randall Ascot & Henry Ledore & Angela Ledore, Randall Ascot/Henry Ledore
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Let's raise a glass to fortune

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory christmas fic that's absolutely stuffed with headcanons, enjoy !!! and happy celebrations to everyone !

“Henry, you’re not having a cup-a-soup as your Christmas dinner !”

So Randall had warned him, not once nor twice but _three times_ over the course of the past week. Every time, without fail, Henry had assured him that no, he would not be having a cup-a-soup nor any other kind of instant meal as he usually did during busy times, because he had already cleared his schedule in advance. Christmas holidays are Christmas holidays, and even the most occupied get those, really, dear, there’s no need to worry.

The first time Randall had seemed satisfied enough, and sauntered out of his office without further argument, but work had piled up since. Henry had missed three meals in the last few days, a sacrifice he’s no stranger to, but his absence at home had triggered the second, then third protest that his partner had issued, in an increasingly worried tone.

And Henry can’t blame him – he’s a patient man, as the past eighteen years have proven, but even he is becoming to grow a little desperate. The holiday seasons in Monte d’Or are the worst, the city and all its attractions flooded with tourists from across the Isles. He, like every businessman around here, has gotten used to the rush, but this year it’s more than a perfunctory social celebration. For the first time in years, he’s celebrating with the one he cherishes most of all, and god knows Randall likes his celebrations. Occasionally, hunched over a stack of sordid folders to sort through, he allows himself to breach professionalism long enough to daydream a little : about the cinnamon tea and the four-course meal, the crackers that will inevitably be hidden around the house, the homemade pudding and Mrs Ascot’s fruitcake, and when he’s feeling particularly bold he thinks about the mistletoes and that sends him entirely off-track. But slowly the paperwork, the management, it’s sapping the season’s spirit out of him like a leech. On the evening of the 22nd the Montsarton Gallery phones in, and the panicked manager wails the same sentence enough times for Henry to make out the gist of it : it’s terrible, a flood, the ceiling is in ruins. He’s faxed a formal request for reparations with a very high quote at the bottom and phones his accountant with his head in his hands, acutely aware that taking care of the situation is going to take him the best part of the next 48 hours.

Unfortunately for him, it’s beginning to look a lot like he _is_ having a cup-a-soup as his Christmas dinner. Maybe they can make it a nice one. He’s quite fond of the chicken and vegetable brew.

In a highly unwise move, but deeply characteristic, he decides to keep the heave of the workload to himself. For one, there’s no reason to burden Randall with the state of his affairs when he’s in such a merry mood, and besides ! There’s always a little chance, isn’t there ? that he’ll having this whole thing sorted by Christmas Eve. He’ll be home in time to take care of the silverware personally.

So he tells himself. Despite all his efforts the 23rd is a blur – he remembers kissing Randall good morning, and kissing him goodnight, and in between is a cacophony of phone calls and little else. He nearly doesn’t make it home, held up until late at night balancing figures, but he hasn’t missed a single night home since their reunion and doesn’t intend to start now, even if it means calling a cab in the pitch black and feeling his way through the corridors as not to disturb the mansion’s inhabitants. He slips into bed still dressed and, insanely, grateful for the three or four hours of sleep ahead of him. It’s always in the little things. His alarm goes off at six, and with heavy eyelids and an aching back he feels a lot less grateful about things.

It takes him a long, long moment to try and extirpate himself out from under the covers. The first thing that comes to mind is that his suit is crumpled to hell and back – the second is that he’s pretty happy he thought to take his shoes off. He needs to change his tie, he notices, already hearing the ticking of all the time he’s losing, lying there with his legs hanging halfway off the bed. It’s really warm. Ah, that makes it so much more difficult… He glances to his left without thinking and immediately wishes he hadn’t, because the sight is hard to resist. Randall is still asleep, mostly, head buried in his pillow so that most of his face is impossible to make out under that mop of curly hair he refuses to cut. He makes a small noise, between a grunt and a sigh, and Henry feels like heart physically ache. With a thin hand he reaches out to brush a lock of his love’s hair out of his face, tucking it neatly behind his ear. The motion is enough to rouse him, and he blinks wearily in the weak lighting. Absently he rubs his eye and shifts his position to face Henry.

Henry has a feeling whatever comes out of the man’s mouth will not help him get to work on time.

“Good morning,” he says softly, hoping that taking the initiative will save him. There’s also the possibility that Randall is not awake enough to process what he’s saying, which he’s largely relying on. The problem is not the man himself, but rather the fact it’s impossible for Henry to resist him. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Randall’s shoulders shake with a waking shudder. He frowns. “It is _not_ morning.”

Inclined to agree, Henry chooses not to reply. It’s still a mystery to him how someone who loved lie-ins so much had survived on a farm for so long, but he had probably wiggled his way out of morning duties the way he always did : through sheer charm. “There are some urgent claims to process today,” he explains in a whisper. “Morning can’t wait any longer, in my case.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Randall mumbles, and reaches for him. Blindly he wraps his arm around Henry and pulls him closer, a motion his partner is neither able nor willing to resist. With a small sigh, he accepts the sleepy kiss bestowed upon him and rests his head back down on the pillow to humour him. Randall hums appreciatively and rests his head against his shoulder. “Stay with me. You came back in the middle of the night. Isn’t it –“ (a big yawn) “Aren’t you entitled to some sleep ?”

“I am, and I have. I’m not tired, dear.” What a transparent little lie. “However, I am very, very busy.”

“Lying down for two hours is not getting a good night’s sleep, Hen.”

It certainly is for him, and a privilege if he’s honest. With a gentle nudge he starts to dislodge the young man who’s clinging to him, eyes shutting already, and making a cunning attempt to entwine their legs as to trap his poor partner. “Randall,” Henry pleads softly, giving him a long look. “This isn’t reasonable.”

Indignation rouses him, and in a slurred mumble rising in pitch, he protests : “Are you joking ? What’s unreasonable is hauling you out of bed at six on Christmas Eve of all days –“

“It isn’t a bank holiday, dear. Lots of people are working –“

“Henry, you don’t have to wait until you’re legally obligated to rest to do so !”

Randall has hoisted himself into a semi-sitting position, and wrapped his arms around his knees. Henry seizes the opportunity to untangle himself from the sheets and tug his tie loose, already reaching for the bedside drawer. He can feel his partner’s eyes on his back the whole time, and when his tie is changed and straightened and he turns back towards him, he finds them doleful.

“I’m sorry,” he tells him. “I want nothing more than to stay.”

“I _know,”_ Randall sighs, giving him something of a smile. “I’m just worried about you, and I never worry about anything, do I ? You shouldn’t be this busy, it isn’t healthy.”

It’s his turn to acquiesce, in a quiet voice. Because he’s always liked to be busy above all, most productive when overwhelmed, but this is far too much even for him. He will need to delegate soon, and efficiently, to free some of his time for his home life. He’s still new to having one, but he’ll get there.

Randall slips out of bed and goes over to give him a hug, which he accepts gratefully. “I’ll come over and bring you lunch,” he says, rubbing at his right eye tenaciously. “Promise you’ll have breakfast ?”

“Thank you. I’ll look forward to it.” Henry’s grip tightens, before releasing him. They share a quick peck. “And I promise.”

“Good luck with today, love.”

And with Randall’s, blessing, he’s off. A man of his word, he does have breakfast, which consists of a scalding cup of tea and a buttered slice of toast, before rushing out of the mansion fifteen minutes off-schedule. Mordy is already waiting for him by the gates, car parked behind the bend.

“Did something keep you, sir ?” the driver asks, buckling his seatbelt. In the back seat, Henry does the same.

“Yes. But the good kind. Is our first stop the museum ?”

“Certainly is.”

While Mordy rears out of the alleyway, Henry left his head rest against the car window and gazes out into the streets. Not for the first time, he wishes he had the time to walk to work, especially when he needed to be somewhere relatively close to the house; even in the early morning, the streets are never deserted, passers-by standing up to the blistering December breeze under the lampposts. They drive through a narrow streets, the cobbles sending the car shaking gently as they go past a handful of shops, all beginning to prepare for last-minute shoppers and eager tourists. It’s all a heart-warming sight, to see the city vibrate, but for someone who helped found it, he spends remarkably little time wandering it. The thought is more bitter than sweet.

On the Gallery Plaza he steps out of the car and immediately wishes he’d thought to bring a scarf. It’s colder than he’d estimated, cold enough to send his breath erupting in a white puff. Jaw clamped shut to keep his teeth from chattering, he runs up the marble stairs leading to the museum and between its sliding doors takes refuge near the closest radiator.

If he finds the time, he’ll call Randall, and ask him to please drop by a scarf along with their lunch. Then he promptly forgets about the idea and greets the manager with a reassuring handshake. Boy, he’s freezing.

The man is still blubbering a little, and starts moaning out apologies while leading Henry down the hall. He’s twisting his fingers as he goes, dislodging and relodging a golden band around his ring finger. “We’re so very sorry to have asked you here today of all days, Mister Ledore. These things have a habit of happening at the worst of times. Just last summer, days before the tourist peak of the season, the paint on the storage room wall started peeling –“

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Henry assures him. He gives the ring a discreet glance. “I’m sure you also have better places to be, and people waiting.”

“Ah, well, yes,” the man smiles, a tad embarrassed. “My wife certainly wasn’t very happy last night. Nor this morning, as a matter of fact. She sent quite the fax.” A nervous chuckle breaks into his speech, and he gestures to the left, leading Henry into the next room. “If I may be so indiscreet, your own must have reacted in much the same way, hm ?”

Henry takes a moment to formulate a response that’s adequately simple to fit in such a small-chat context, but summarises the absolute chaos that had taken place earlier this year accurately. What he ends up with is : “Ah, we agreed to separate a little while ago. Though we will be celebrating together.”

“Oh dear. I’m sorry.” The manager turns apologetic eyes away from him and starts staring intensely at his shoes. Twice he bumps into doorframes, and waddles through them like nothing’s amiss. Henry notes this might be the most uncomfortable man he’s come across in a while, and off-handedly adds :

“My partner, however, was rather distressed to hear me get up so early.”

The man’s face brightens right up. He reaches into his pocket for a key, and he’s smiling at Henry as he unlocks the door. “Well, I can imagine. Up before the sun, we are. I’m happy to hear you have someone watching out for you, sir. Ah ! Here we are. Isn’t it odious ? The state of the wooden flooring is very poor. We had an expert in yesterday…”

Odious isn’t exactly the word that jumps to mind, but yes, it does look like a pretty disastrous flood. The ceiling has welted up and begun clumping; in other places, air bubbles have formed and burst holes in the paintwork. Just a little bit of mould is showing its head, in the very top corner. It’s suddenly very obvious why he’s being asked for so much money. The question that’s left is how he’ll shift it from one budget to another.

“I suppose that the wood has started to rot,” he says, trying not to sound too tired.

“I’m afraid so. We need a entire section of the flooring redone, not to mention redecorated. As for the ceiling, it’s likely part of it will need to be torn down…”

“And when could that be done, at the earliest ?”

The manager readjusts his sleeve cuffs, considering this. “Well, we have phoned a team in to limit the damage. They should be here at eight. However, considering the amount of work that needs to be done, and tomorrow being a holiday, I don’t think we’ll have this sorted before the 27th, sir.”

“Alright,” Henry nods. He holds back his wince until the man looks away to size up the damage. “I need to tidy all of this up back at my office. I’ll have something for you by this evening.”

“Thank you very much, sir. I will keep you informed.”

They exchange another handshake. Making for the door, Henry pauses with his hand on the handle, and turns back towards him. “I wish you merry Christmas celebrations in advance, Beaufort.”

He beams back, and raises in a hand in a little wave. “And a very pleasant evening to you too, Mister Ledore. Extend my apologies to your partner for keeping you so busy, would you ?”

“Certainly,” Henry smiles, wondering about how the man would react, if told partner in question had cleverly sabotaged his exposition and walked all over his roof nearly a year prior. He decides to keep this tidbit to himself and shows himself back out. It’s the central heating he’s most sorry to leave behind, and as soon as he steps back outside, the wind bites right back into him, settling dryly in his bones. He feels old. Nearly thirty-six, ancient.

Once again, it occurs to him he really should telephone Randall and ask for a jumper, at least. Again, the though escapes him quasi-immediately, and this time for a reason better than inattention : he’s spotted a familiar face on the Plaza.

With his work cleared out for him, he needs to hurry to his office and sort this out with Murphy. While deep in conversation with Beaufort he had begun to have a sinking feeling that nothing would go well today, and that his accountant would be too busy with his other employer to tend to his affair. Now he stands shivering but reassured. Alphonse Dalston isn’t balancing numbers; he’s, visibly, shopping. The lucky bastard is well equipped for the cold, wearing a thick leather coat, a pair of matching gloves and, astonishingly, a pair of _ear-muffles_ , and he’s looking smug about it, too. From the other side of the town square, he recognises Henry in turn and paces towards him, grinning manically. Henry has never seen him grin any other way.

“I’m too busy for this,” he laments to himself, between gritted teeth. He tries to pull his coat a little closer, as to look at least a tad less freezing. He doesn’t think it’s a very successful move, because Alphonse’s opening line is :

“If it isn’t Henry, shaking like a new-born fawn !”

“Good morning, Alphonse,” he greets him dryly.

Alphonse doesn’t offer him a hand to shake. As has become habit, they simply stare at each other, silent in their respective assessment.

“Forgot to bring a scarf ?” the taller of the pair inquires, not without a little teasing. “Maybe look into buying a fuzzy hat. I got one for my niece – would love to recommend some brands.”

“Very funny,” Henry says blankly, face absolutely straight. “I had to rush out of the house to make it here on time. I have a very busy day ahead of me. Unlike you, it seems.”

Alphonse raises his eyebrows. “No need to be so harsh ! It’s Christmas Eve. There’s no way I’m working today nor tomorrow, I’m not insane.”

“It must be wonderful to be so free of responsibility.”

“Don’t start,” the man sighs, lifting a hand in protest. “It’s not because you insist on doing everything yourself that everyone has to operate like that ! I have businesses to manage, too. I’m just not doing it single-handedly, because I’m not dead stubborn.”

“I don’t see the necessity to spread the managing of my investments across different people. I can manage it just fine.”

“Well, sure, but you don’t _have_ to. Surely someone has told you this, Henry, you’ve been in business for close to twenty years.”

“But why on earth would I burden someone with something I’m perfectly able to do myself ?” he asks, quite bewildered.

“Because then you could spend Christmas Eve at home, instead of at work,” Alphonse goes, like it’s as simple as a-b-c. “Bet Randall had a right ole winge at you this morning, and rightfully.”

“That is a _private_ matter –!”

“Yes, yes.” The man takes a pacifying step back, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I’m not about to stand here giving advice to my rival, especially if he insists on getting so shouty. I’m just saying that you might be the biggest guy in town, but the difference between us today leans in my favour. I get to spend time with my loved ones, or whatever, and you’re up to your neck in work.”

Henry gives him a weary glance. “You don’t have any family in the south. I suppose you’re planning to travel by train today.”

“Quite right, and quite wrong,” Alphonse says cryptically, with an alarming widening smile. “I’m not going anywhere. Not that I’ll be spending the evening alone, though ! I heard you were having a fancy little reception at your house. To which Randall graciously invited me, by the by…”

He did not.

“A very kind, charitable offer. Which I of course accepted.”

…did he ?!

“So I’ll be seeing you tonight,” the man finishes, beaming like a shark. “Well, if you’ve finished whatever you’re dealing with by then. If not, I promise to eat your share, so no need to waste your energy worrying about anything going to waste…”

Henry stands there silently, thinking things he was too well brought-up to say out loud, let alone in public. At the very least the irritation warms him a little. “This is –“

Whatever shows on his face, Alphonse doesn’t like it. The humour falls off his face like a veil, replaced by a steep frown that almost looks apologetic. “I’m just teasing, Ledore. You always take things too seriously. Tonight could be a fantastic evening if we play it right – with Randall back it’ll be just like old times !”

Just like old times; well, he supposes so. All days weren’t fun back then, but a lot of them were. The memories, mostly, are the best he has in store, and with Randall at their table again this year, things might just work out.

“He told me Hershel was driving down today or tomorrow to visit, and he’s bringing his missus, too – uh, Clara ?”

“Claire,” Henry puts in. He’s warming up to the idea, bit by bit. Having their friend group, complete under his roof after so long; he wants to be there to see it. “I suppose –“

“If you don’t want me there, I won’t show,” Alphonse tells him, sounding like he means it. “Today’s about celebrating. Choice is yours.”

Henry shakes his head. “No. I’d like you to be there.”

Taken aback, the man pauses. “Well then,” he goes. “If you’d like to be there too, you should probably get a move on, ‘ey ?”

“Absolutely,” he sighs, glancing over the man’s shoulder. Mordy is giving him a beckoning wave. “I really ought to go right away. I’ll be expecting you tonight, then.”

“Expect me alright !” Alphonse grins, and gives him a farewell nod. Henry returns it and promptly gets out of there, running over to the car. His aide holds the door open for him, and starts the engine. Henry has rarely been more glad to own a highly insulated car.

“Everything alright, sir ?” Mordy inquires, looking into the rear-view mirror.

“Oh, yes. I’m just dreadfully off-schedule now.”

By the time he gets anything definitive signed and sent, it’s nearly half past ten. The lack of sleep has started to drill holes into his skull, which he’s trying to ignore, quite in vain; he just can’t concentrate today. Mordy finds him with his head on the table, propped up by a pile of unorganised files, and has the decency not to make a comment.

Between Randall’s insistence he stay in bed and his illuminating conversation with Alphonse, he has ended up forty minutes behind. What, that’s it ? Yeah, actually, it really is, but it’s enough to throw him entirely off his groove and make everything ahead look ten times more difficult. A file needs organising before being sent off, but shuffling through its documents reveals an inconsistency, which itself turns into a huge, new problem, and so forth. Murphy, who had knocked on his office door at eight, is merrily whistling a carol tune from the adjourned room. He’s in a wonderfully good mood. Even when he tells Henry he’s going to have to call the town hall to fix the figures, he’s smiling like it’s Christmas.

Ah, but it is.

Henry slowly raises his head and surveys the state of his desk. Paper is spilling off its edges and onto the floor. He doesn’t know what half of it is for. The situation is overwhelmingly poor, and he’s feeling mighty powerless about it; he guesses there’s only one thing to be done. Boiling the kettle, that is. Next door, the telephone rings a few rounds before being picked up.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Murphy ?” he asks, leaning in the doorway with the kettle at hand. The man is scratching at his moustache, telephone balanced between his chin and his shoulder. He looks up at Henry and vehemently nods.

“That would be great, sir,” he says, covering the receiver with one hand. “Cuppa anything’ll do me fine. Oh, ‘n there’s someone on the line for you here. I’ll transfer it to you, hold on.”

Henry flicks the kettle on before going over to his desk to reach for his phone. “Which line ?”

“Nine, sir, external.”

“Thank you.” He presses down on the correct button and listens to the buzz of the signal. Very curious that the call wasn’t redirected from the desk downstairs. “Hello ?”

“Hi, Hen !” Randall goes from the other end, grin audible. “How are you doing ? I’m not interrupting a phone call, am I ?”

Henry’s expression relaxes, and he finds himself beaming at the thin air before him. The sound Randall’s voice does something to his morale that no amount of sleep could rival with. “Not at all. Is something the matter, dear ?” Ever the pessimist, he chews on the corner of his bottom lip as he adds : “If you can’t make it for lunch, that’s perfectly fine.”

There’s a moment’s silence, during which his partner is most certainly rolling his eyes. “I’m bringing you lunch whether you like it or not ! No, everything is OK – I just called to say I love you !”

It’s Henry’s turn to do something of an eyeroll, even though it’s the fondest of kinds. “Well, thank you for taking the time to do so. I love you too. What is it really, though ?”

“Really ! I just called to say I care !”

“Alright.” Henry muffles a laugh. “It’s noted.”

“And also –“

“Ah !”

“And _also,_ ” Randall persists, “to ask what time you want me to come. This is my loving way of asking what time you’re going to take a break, because I know you hate the word, but I’m not letting you eat a sandwich over a pile of invoices again.”

“It only happened twice,” he says, not without humour. It rapidly fades when he looks at the clock, and back down at the sizeable stack of papers waiting for him on the carpet. “Only, I’ve made hardly any progress so far, and if I want to make it home before nightfall –“

“Let’s say half past one,” Randall says on the spot, leaving no room for argument.

“…”

“I’ll be there at half past one, okay ? I’ll bring you a couple of tangerines. Angela and my mother say you look pale.”

“Yes, alright,” Henry sighs at last. Behind him, the kettle clicks. If it were up to him he’d have Randall over at eleven, but he’s too distracting in every sense of the word. No one on this floor or the next would get anything done. He, he thinks, smiling, least of all. “Oh, before you go…”

There’s rummaging on the other end. “Hm ?”

“Did you invite Alphonse Dalston to our Christmas reception ?”

“Yeah !” Randall says, like it’s trivial. “I _did_ ask you first, by the way. I’m a farm boy with _manners._ ”

“I don’t recall us discussing him,” Henry voices, rubbing his eyes with a knuckle. “Not that I object. It’ll be our first time all together again in quite a while, and there’s no better opportunity.”

A little concerned : “Actually, we did, and I told you that you weren’t awake enough for a discussion but you _insisted_ you were, so –“

“Point taken, my love,” he says gently. “I need more sleep. Really, I – I see that now.”

Randall stays quiet for a moment, only his steady breathing marking his presence on the telephone line. If Henry closes his eyes, it almost feels like he’s right there with him. Then, in a voice that’s disarmingly juvenile, he murmurs : “I’m looking forward to spending Christmas with everyone again.”

“So am I.” Henry looks away from his desk and at the ground. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach that he’s trying to ignore. “Very much.”

“You’d better be home early, Hen. It won’t be right without you.”

Murphy has pushed the door to his little office open and discreetly let himself in. He’s pouring water into both of their mugs, and fishing two spoons out of the drawer; he catches his employer’s eye and mouths three words Henry can make out perfectly : _need a word !_

 _Just a minute,_ he gestures back. It’s really all he can afford. The amount of work to get through is starting to look suffocating. “I – I will do everything I can.”

“Within reason, I hope,” Randall grumbles from the other side.

“Within reason,” he agrees, already uncomfortable with the lie. He accepts the cup that Murphy extends to him and holds it to his chest. The heat makes him feel no less jittery, he’s disappointed to find. “I’m so sorry, I really should get back to it.”

“Aw, okay. See you in a few hours !”

“Don’t forget your keys this time, dear.”

“Hah ! _As if I would_ – actually, I’m not sure where I put them…”

They share a smile, streets apart, before the line cuts. The warmth just seeps right out of him like he’s been punctured. He tries to hold onto it, but it goes so fast, and the stacks of paperwork around him are so towering. Dulled, he makes his way into Murphy’s office. He summon the will to pull up a chair and leans over his desk instead, gathering his wits as best he can. “What was it that you needed to tell me ?”

The man offers a slightly worried smile. “You look mighty under the weather, sir. If you’re worried about the museum, cast it out of your mind ! I spoke to the financial director and he told me that the figures were starting to look alright, despite some shabby managing last summer –“ He catches himself, eyes shifting. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, sir.”

Sometimes, Henry wonders what Murphy tells people about his own figures. It’s times like this he realises he really ought to try not to think about it. “Nothing new, then.”

“Afraid so. Wanted to talk to you about the charities you usually donate to round Christmas time, actually. One of them closed early March, and they’ve redirected the funds to a new one near, um, ah, yeah ! Leeds. Need written confirmation you’d like to follow through with that one instead, unless you’d rather cancel the fund.”

“Yes. That’s fine.”

“Great,” the man says brightly. “I’ll draft a paper and have it on your desk for signature in an hour.”

“Thank you.” Henry takes a moment to stare at the wall behind his accountant, worn down indeed. After a long pause, he hears himself ask : “Say, Murphy ?”

The man blinks. “Uh, yes, sir ?”

“Is there anything on today’s agenda that couldn’t be done tomorrow, or the following day ?”

“Well…” Murphy scratches his chin with the end of his pen. “I don’t suppose there is, really.”

“There’s nothing terribly urgent sitting on my desk ?

“…no, there isn’t.”

With a decisive nod, Henry straightens up. “Go home, Murphy.”

He’s already in the next room by the time the man has reacted, and therefore misses the surprised joy that spreads across his face. The accountant scrapes his chair back and calls : “But what about the bills, sir ?”

“Curse the bills,” Henry says, telephone in hand. “I’m going home, too.”

On the doorstep of the side-entrance to the Ledore Mansion, there’s a small note that reads :

TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF BEFORE COMING IN !!!

(the sentence is underlined three times)

It’s entirely Randall’s fault that it’s there. Too many days of treading dirt into the living room had earned him the worst of Angela’s scorn (perhaps a little rightfully), and ended up with a written warning, framed on the brick wall. Yes, he’ll take his shoes off ! It’s just that with the amount of time he spends in the greenhouse, it’s easy to forget.

It’s a great place, that greenhouse, although he has absolutely no clue why it’s there in the first place; Angela is allergic to pollen, and Henry is barely home enough to maintain the garden. It’s just him in there most of the time, doing what he’s learnt to do best over the past eighteen years : make things grow, and soliloquy. He’s outstanding at both those things, having practiced many, many hours, and with no job to keep him busy, it gives him something to do.

His current baby is a very small, very promising looking sprout going by the scientific name of _elegia capensis_. Its species is around 145 million years old, something he knows without being aware of where the hell he learnt it, and he’s only growing it with the intent to subject it to the wrath of elements, to see how it’ll react. It’s all a very interesting historical and palaeontological experiment if he can make something of it – or so he says. To be honest, he just can’t stand being bored.

“You existed during the late Cretaceous period,” he’d lectured the poor little plant, patting its dirt bed fondly. “And you’ve hardly evolved. Hardly ! That’s just not making much of an effort. What work is there for us to do if you show up across history in identical forms ? I’ve never seen a plant with such a bad case of bone-idleness, and I’ve grown some stuff.”

The plant had not spared him a reply, further proving his point.

Not to be deterred, he had given its tiny leaves a stern glance. “Don’t look at me like that ! I have one of you upstairs in my room, in a _fossil._ That could happen to you ! And then someone would dig you up in a millennia or two and your species wouldn’t have changed. I’ll admit there’s something pretty fantastic about _that._ ”

But there’s something more fantastic yet waiting for him on the doorstep. When he kicks his boots off and sets them neatly against the wall, he notices a second pair of shoes, aligned perfectly parallel to the brick line. He stumbles into the foyer still looking at them, bumping into the counter along the way.

“Angela ?” he calls, from the bottom of the staircase.

There’s a loud rustle of fabric from one of the rooms upstairs. “Have you washed your hands, Randy ?” she calls back, in a tone that suggests she knows the answer.

“I haven’t touched anything !”

“Yet.”

“Yes, alright,” he concedes, after a rapid glance at the state of his fingernails. “Say, you wouldn’t have cleared out any of Henry’s stuff this morning, by any chance ?”

“As though I have that kind of time on my hands !” Angela appears on the landing, leaning against the wooden handrail. Her face is flushed and hair in disarray. “There’s far too much to do before this evening, and it has to be perfect, you know how Henry is…”

“Well, I’ll give you a hand, if you want.” He gives the doorstep another short look, for good measure.

“Wash it first,” she smiles slyly, and disappears back into the corridor.

Alright then; he slides his way into the kitchen, where the floorboards have been recently mopped and are appropriately slippery. The over is pre-heating, seeping warm air into the rest of the room. On the counter he’s already prepared a huge Tupperware filled with enough sandwiches for five people and bits and pieces of fruit for lunch. The tangerines that wouldn’t fit sit on top. Expressly ignoring orders, he reaches up into one of the cupboards and fishes a mint chocolate out of a bowl, popping it directly into his mouth.

“Tastes like dirt,” he tells the sink, frowning as though this wasn’t a predictable outcome. “Not so bad.”

He swears he hears someone let out a queasy sigh behind him, and before he can turn around, two hands land squarely on his shoulders. To say he jumps is an understatement. He narrowly misses whacking his forehead against the faucet, turning around with the full intent to give whoever it is a shaky scolding, but hey ! It’s just Henry, trying to hold back a laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he manages, heart still hammering against his ribcage. “Henry, you – wait, _Henry ?”_

“It’s quite alright, my love. I’m certain it’s not the first time I’ve heard you say something to that effect about the taste of soil.”

“Why, you –!” Randall starts, and tackles Henry into a hug. This successfully knocks the wind – and indeed, the laugh – out of him. A tad embarrassed, Randall finds himself clinging onto the back of his suit, face buried against his shoulder. “What are you doing here ?”

Henry rubs his back in gentle motions, leaning into their embrace. “I decided to be reasonable.”

“Well, that’s new,” he teases him, shifting back a little. “You mean you’ve taken the day off ?”

“I’ve rescheduled my work to a later date,” Henry corrects him, still smiling. It looks radiant on him. “Saying it that way makes it sound a little less like I’m slacking off.”

“As if you could ever be capable of that !” Randall’s hands settle on either side of his partner’s face and tilt it under the light. “You look terrible, Hen. Did you sleepwalk back ?”

“Mordy insisted on driving me back, but I can’t say I remember the trip. Technically I may have slept my way here.”

“Might be best you sleep your way up to bed, then. After a sandwich and a cup of tea, that is !”

Reluctantly they untangle and take a very small step back each. Randall uses the opportunity to pop the tap on with his elbow and stick his hands in the sink, scrubbing under his nails. The gesture is semi-automatic by now, allowing him to watch Henry as he goes about it, and catch the dashing young businessman frown like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“I was hoping,” Henry says slowly, handing him a paper towel, “to help you and Angela set things up. I know I can have –” (half a smile) “ – specific expectations at times.”

“Nope !” Randall says brightly. “Say, what have you been doing this morning, love ?”

Henry’s face tenses with a deep frown. He looks even more exhausted, hunched this way. “Nothing of interest, nor out of the ordinary. Managing expenses, mostly, and making security checks.”

“Right. That… really does sound awful, actually, blimey.”

He nudges him gently. “I believe you were trying to make a point, dear.”

“Yes ! Yes I was.” Randall scratches the back of his head a moment, leaning back against the counter. “What do you reckon me and Angie have been up to while you were at work ?”

“I…” Henry looks at him, hoping for a hint, but he’s standing with his arms casually crossed and no intent showing. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Preparing, I assume. The floor looks very clean.”

His beams proudly : “Right ? We mopped the whole floor ! Anyway, the correct answer to that question was : really not much _._ I got up at ten and spent most of that time trying not to get in the way or knock things over. Angela’s been folding stuff upstairs and taking inventory. We’re only starting to get stuck in. Point is, we’re fine on our own ! We’ve been getting our twelve hours; unlike someone I know.”

Henry seems to catch his drift, or looks like it at the very least, which is a good sign. He actually reaches up to rub his eyes, and leaves his hand in place, blocking out the light. “Nonetheless…”

“You think I’m the one to convince here ? The lady currently ironing upstairs will have both our skins if she finds you wandering around,” Randall tells him, semi-serious. “C’mon. We’re not asking for much – just a nap. Take a nap ? For me ?”

The blonde heaves a soft sigh. Both his hands are hooked atop one of the chairs, tapping at the wood in regular intervals. “I suppose I could consider it,” he says at last, “if you were to come with me.”

And he’s smiling again, finally ! It’s just a small one, as it often is, gentle in its curve and intention, Henry’s killer move. Randall has a feeling the man’s figured out its effect on him and has begun using it to nefarious ends. “I can’t, Hen. Leaving Angela to deal with all this wouldn’t be right.”

“Of course it wouldn’t. Perhaps just an hour –“

“Henry !” he protests fondly, accepting the kiss the man places on his forehead. “There’s too much stuff to do. I’d rather follow you up, but I’ve decided to be reasonable, too ! Just for today, obviously. I’m not reinventing myself here.”

“Well, that’s new,” Henry quotes right back at him, scrunching up his nose just slightly. “Very well. I trust you’ll wake me up if my help is needed for something.”

The man is playing for time, something he tragically only does when asked to take a break; Randall, who’s seen it a hundred times before, takes none of it. He places both his hands flat against Henry’s back and starts gently pushing him towards the kitchen doorway. “We’re not as helpless as you make us out to be ! We’ll be fine !”

“You know suggesting that wasn’t my intention.”

“Yeah, I do. Your intention is to avoid going to bed ! Hurry up those stairs or I’ll carry you up myself !”

Henry turns around and gives him a look that suggests the idea isn’t all that bad. Randall fights a laugh with all his might and guides him towards the staircase.

“Thirteen minutes,” Angela states, when he finally closes the bedroom door behind him. She looks very fierce, with her hair held back by a dozen little red clips. They usually make an appearance when she’s painting, but today the workload requires them. “It took thirteen minutes to get him to bed this time.”

Randall looks at the clock that overlooks the foyer. “Ten, surely !”

“It was definitely thirteen. Two less than last time ! Do you want to write it down or shall I ?”

She turns and wanders back down the stairs. He follows her and accepts the stack of plates she bestows upon him as soon as he’s off the last step.

“Do you think one day we’ll be able to nudge him and he’ll just, you know, go without a fuss ?” he asks, placing the stack on the dining room table. It’s already been clothed and cleaned.

Angela gives him an amused look. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she says. “We can certainly dream !”

When Henry awakes, it’s night-time. He doesn’t immediately realise, mind sufficiently muddled that he’s forgotten the time of day. His right hand reaches blindly to silence an alarm clock that isn’t ringing. He blinks in the darkness, and as his eyes adjust their focus, realises that the curtains aren’t blocking out the morning light after all, and those little shining spots aren’t holes in the fabric – they’re the lights of the city outside, twinkling merrily. The sky is completely black, save for the searchlights that wander across the tallest buildings. For a moment he sits, head resting against the headboard, and stares into the outside world behind the glass. Electric neons buzz on and off in shades of celebratory red and green on every windowsill. From inside the room the city seems so quiet, like it’s vacant and abandoned, despite the crowds on the streets. It’s nice, the silence, and he leans into it, eyes closing, before realising there’s a distant chatter scratching gently at the door. It’s persistent and gay, and it’s coming from inside his home.

This is more or less when it clicks in his head.

The light pouring in from the streets is enough to help him navigate the room. The bright red digits flashing from his bedside table inform him that it’s seven forty-two, post meridiem, making him very late for the second time today. He tiptoes out of the room and onto the landing, nearly tripping over a festive-looking carpet that has been set upon the steps, neatly folded into place. Above him, fairy lights have been tacked to the ceiling.

“Well,” he mutters matter-of-factly. No inch of the house has been spared by this decorating spree, not even the wooden handrail, which boasts two snowmen-shaped stickers. They’re winking at him. He thinks they’re charming.

Downstairs, glasses clink together and go from tray to hand. He follows the tinkering into the kitchen, where Mordy is piling an impressive amount of verrines onto a tray. From experience he knows that takes some major elbow strength. The butler notices him and offers a professional smile.

“Well rested, sir ?”

“Yes, I’m feeling much better.” He risks a glance into the glass door that connects into the dining room, and notices his hair is sticking up in every direction. Smoothing it down, he asks : “I’m assuming the guests have…”

Mordy is uncorking a wine bottle one-handed with remarkable casualness, and adds it to his tray. His arm barely trembles. “Begun to arrive ? Yes, they have. I was under strict instructions not to wake you up.”

Of course he was. In the other room, Randall is leaning against the table and gesturing wildly, narrowly avoiding a major spill with every shake of his glass. He appears to be deep in conversation with a small group that nods along with each of his words. Angela walks past and greets the guests in turn. Both of them look supremely at ease. “No harm done. Is everything going smoothly ?”

“Just fine, sir. You should go through.”

He offers a helping hand. Mordy opens the door for him instead, and allows him to go first. It occurs to Henry, very briefly, that this is the first reception he’s attended in his entire life that he hasn’t overseen at least partly. He feels a little guilty for all the unease the thought brings him, but it’s new and out of the ordinary and those are always difficult at first. He changes his mind within one step and takes a moment to take it all in.

Randall had not been joking; they’d gone to work as soon as his head hit the pillow. By now Henry knows every inch of this room, but it’s unrecognisable now, nearly swaying with each flicker of candlelight. The chandelier glistening above them is brand new, and so are the red velvet curtains framing the windows. Flowers and fern are hung up across the wall, holly crawling across the ceiling and the heavy tablecloth that’s been meticulously readied to obsessive standards. Trust him; he knows them better than anyone. Absently he reaches out and grasps a small trinket laying atop of the buffet. It’s a crystal pine tree. Its tip pricks at his thumb – he hardly notices, too taken with the feeling of warmth that’s flooding him. It’s all beautiful.

He navigates the edges of the room, careful not to attract attention. In the far corner, by the coffee table, Angela is chatting with a pair of her friends and their partners, curling a strand of hair around her finger. The guests are admiring the painting on the wall, one of her creations and the household’s unanimous favourite. “I’d love to make it a career,” she’s telling them, smiling timidly. “Perhaps, in a few years…”

“Why wait ?” one of her friends asks, reaching out to touch her hand. “You could do it right now, Angie. This is stunning ! I could make some calls !”

The second, a bright-eyed brunette, pulls her closer by the shoulders. “Have you got anymore to show us ?”

“Why, yes ! Upstairs, in my workshop. Oh, there’s one I’d love for you to see –“

She lets the two women enclose her in an enthusiastic hug, and catches Henry’s eye in its midst, beaming. He smiles back. She hasn’t looked this full of life in a long time. He watches her lift a hand and point his way.

He points at his chest, tilting his head. Him ?

She shakes her head gently and mouths : _behind you !_

Oh, he mouths back, and shuffles around. There’s a huge shape blocking out the light, casting him in its shadow. Thankfully, it’s no Leviathan : it’s just Alphonse, and he’s holding two champagne glasses. He extends one out for him to take, which Henry accepts, still a little dazed.

“Promise I haven’t poisoned it,” the man jokes, and takes a sip out of his own. He seems to be in a jovial mood indeed. “I see you managed to wriggle your way out of the pile of work you burrowed under this morning, ‘ey ?”

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” Henry agrees. He tilts his glass and lets the drink fizzle on his tongue. “Thank you for coming, Alphonse.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world,” he says honestly. “I can’t believe half of the people I’m running into are here.”

Henry understands what he means, feeling the same way. Down deep in his bones, he’s taking the measure of how special it is to all be gathered here again, how lucky they are to have ended up here of all places, and how many miracles it’s taken. Every inch of the room reminds him of it. The space occupied by his beloved, showing off what looks a lot like a fossil to an elderly couple, particularly. It takes a lot of squinting and strain for him to recognise them, but my god, that’s Roland and Lucille Layton. Over by the oak table, the heavily bearded man he recalls as Tannenbaum is having an animated discussion with Gloria. It all seems a little unreal, like a waking dream.

“It’s one hell of a fancy setup you’ve got here, by the way,” Alphonse continues. “Goes to show that hard work does pay off !” He clears his throat, glancing his way. “This is, uh, uncharacteristic of me, but thank you for organising this, Henry.”

He’s smiling as he sighs, lifting a helpless hand. “Believe it or not, I had little to do with it. It was all them today.”

Alphonse raises a thick eyebrow. “By them, you mean _them_? Angela and Randall ?”

“They insisted I do nothing. You know how good they are at insisting.”

“Oh, I do,” he grunts. “Whew – I’d never have guessed. Angela, she’s got the artist’s eye for this stuff, but Randall… I guess they’ll really do anything for you.”

Henry blinks. “I’m sorry ?”

The man grins and puts a hand on his shoulder. “This. They did it for you. You know that, right ?”

“The – the intent was to have a proper reunion. It has little to do with me specifi–“

“Don’t take it so literally,” Alphonse cuts him off, giving his eyes a roll. “The party’s for all of us, obviously, and we’re having a jolly good time. But the _effort_ – oh hey, look who’s here !”

“No need to announce my arrival !” Randall grins, raising a greeting hand. “I’m generally not very discreet.”

Alphonse gives him a playful slap on the back, which he returns full force. Eighteen years of labouring seems to have given him the upper hand, because his friend actually winces. Very discreetly, mind you. Randall doesn’t notice. With the pleasantries dealt with, he slides into his customary spot right next to Henry.

“You look much better,” he tells him, peering into his face. “A lie-in tomorrow and we’ll have you fixed up in no time !”

“Ever so optimistic,” Alphonse cackles. “You might need to tie him to a chair for a while. It’s the only way he’ll take a holiday. Nice party, by the way – partly your work, I heard !”

Randall’s face lights up with false modesty. “Please. It was a _breeze._ Hardly took three quarters of the day ! My back isn’t even aching. We sort of adlibbed half of it, to be honest, but it’s convincing, isn’t it ?” He nudges his partner gently for confirmation. “What d’ya think, Hen ?”

Absolutely taken aback by the question, Henry stares at him for a moment. Well, he thinks it’s marvellous, of course – who on earth wouldn’t ? Each and every corner is nearly shimmering. The room is warm and welcoming, more than he could have made it. The mix of elegant and wild is their very portrait. But Randall looks genuinely worried about his approval, at least to the extend of his capacity to feel so, and his silence seems to worsen things. Alphonse gives him a pointed look that seems to say : _see ?_ Blimey.

“I think it looks perfect,” he says with total honesty, because my god, he does. “I couldn’t have done it better myself. Thank you for your hard work, my love.”

“Well,” Randall goes, recovering his smile, “it’s the very least you deserve !”

To be _deserving_ of all this is unimaginable, and Henry’s mouth is half open to protest, but Randall sounds like he means it so much. He leans in to give his cheek a quick peck, and adds : “None of us thank you enough.”

“I don’t need to be thanked. Having you here is thanks enough.”

“Henry,” he sighs, giving his arm a fond squeeze, “Please just let us spoil you, for once.”

Ah. He feels his face warm, and instinctively turns his eyes on the floor. Well, perhaps just for an evening… Down the hall, the doorbell goes loudly, carrying a tinkling of bells along into the dining room, and saving him from embarrassment of becoming flustered in front of a business opponent. Said man looks very amused by the whole ordeal, and nods towards the ringing sound.

“Wouldn’t want anything to spoil your moment. Can you bear to let go of each other for a minute, or shall I get it ?”

Randall grins slyly his way. “You’re just jealous you’re the last of the gang to get laid !”

“Excuse me ?” Alphonse glowers, reddening. “As far as I know, Angela –“

“Angie is doing very well for herself !”

“I’ll get it,” Henry says, cutting right through the squabble. He hands Randall his champagne glass, which the man grasps without pausing the bickering. He looks like he’s having fun, and allows Henry to wander without much reluctance. They share a smile as he turns. Through the small crowd he goes, with a handful of ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s until he reaches the foyer, wondering briefly who he’ll find behind the door.

It’s Hershel waiting on the doorstep, holding a very fine-looking bottle. His free hand is entwined with that of a woman with a cascade of ginger hair curling around her shoulders. The pair offer matching sheepish smiles.

“We’re not late, are we ?” she asks. “If we are, it’s my fault, because I promised we wouldn’t be !”

“Not at all,” Henry reassures her, stepping out of the doorway to let them in. “Claire, I assume – it’s a pleasure to meet you. And to see you again, Professor.”

“The pleasure is shared, Henry.”

“You assume correctly !” Claire chips in, and offers a firm handshake. “Thank you for the invitation. You don’t know how curious I am about meeting Hershel’s childhood friends !”

As though summoned, Randall notices the newcomers and makes straight for them through the foyer; still lacking a notion of personal space, he ignores all precursory greetings to tackle Hershel into a tight hug, and greets Claire from over his shoulder with a little wave.

“You made it, Hersh !” he cheers, releasing his friend. He moves towards the young woman and clasps her hands tightly. “And you brought Claire ! I’ve heard a ton about you over the phone !”

She gives her partner a knowing smile. “Oh, trust me, so have I ! A privilege to finally meet you, Randall.”

“Oh dear,” Hershel says mildly, readjusting the rim of his hat over his ears. “I really think we oughtn’t leave those two alone together.” He turns to Henry, offers him the bottle. “We’re in time for a toast, I hope ?”

They certainly are. With the pair in the entrance, the core of the guests have arrived, and more importantly, the old friends are all here, all five of them. That’s certainly worthy of a toast, and immediately ! Glasses are pushed into their hands, and distributed around the room. Alphonse and Angela step into their small circle, the former armed with a large corkscrew that he hands to Henry without a second’s hesitation. The man looks at it, lying in his palm, and at the faces gathered around him, and instinctively extends his hand in offering.

A hand reaches out, and gently closes his fingers over the metal tool. It’s Randall’s, with little specks of dirt still hiding under his nails, as they always have across the years. He withdraws it, job done, and gives Henry the brightest of smiles.

“You open it,” he says. “Without you, none of us would be here.”

There’s a unanimous nod. A lot of eyes are on him, enough to make his hands shake, but all of them are kind. It’s a lot, all of a sudden, to be standing in the centre of the crowd, with his friends within reach, because it’s just taken so long. And he’s tired and weary, but tonight they’re asking nothing of him. Well, just to open the bottle, but he can certainly manage that.

The cork makes a loud popping sound that rings in his ears.

“To Monte D’Or,” someone says. He thinks it’s Alphonse. A new glass is thrust into his trembling grasp.

“And reunions long overdue,” Angela finishes, lifting her glass. They all follow suit. Dimly he realises Randall has taken him by the shoulders and pulled him closer; he relaxes against him and feels himself smile. Long overdue indeed, but better late than never. He’s done it; the five village kids have grown up, but they’re all here. It’s just like it was.

He could ask for no better gift.


End file.
